


Prey (3 stories: 2 Gen-, 1 Caspian-rated)

by Holde_Maid



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 03:29:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7026730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holde_Maid/pseuds/Holde_Maid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>There are many of them.<br/>Some to be trusted, some to be distrusted, some to be feared.<br/>Immortals are their prey, in one way or another. </p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lead On / Methos

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:**  
>  The Highlander universes and characters do not belong to me, which is just as well, since they are quite a handful. However, I made so bold as to borrow them; Thus these stories as such, as well as the original character therein, are mine. But then, I'm happy to share.  
>   
>  **Thanks** to Rhi for the challenge and to Ith for beta duty on the first story. All errors are my own, but feel free to keep any you find and like. *g*

\--------------- __  
Sometimes they are easy to lead on.  
Sometimes they are not.  
\---------------  


  
She had been reading the Chronicle very carefully. All the same, her notes were scarce, and some things just didn't match up.  
  
Goodness, the oldest man in all history, and there was so little to go on, really! It was frustrating. At the same time, well, it was only logical. Methos wasn't considered a myth half the time for nothing. You'd have to be pretty good at disappearing to stay around that long. There always was some Immortal who was faster, stronger, meaner, had better arms or skills, or just plain cheated, right?  
  
Still, no Immortal could always escape notice, not even after several thousand years of practice. He had to have swords, just like they all did. And in the course of that exceptionally long life, there must have been any number of them. No, the existence of a sword owned by Methos wasn't what bothered her. Nor was it encountering one of them in the Watcher archive. These vaults held a large collection of assorted weaponry left behind by Immortals. Halberds, maces, knives, razors, … and swords of all shapes and ages. This was nothing out of the ordinary at all.  
  
Maybe it was just the idea that she might be regarding the real thing. One of the very swords of Methos himself.  
  
On the other hand, she was sure now it wasn't mentioned in any of the Methos Chronicles. And yet the label did not hint at any doubtful source. Or any source, for that matter. It just said "Short sword of Methos, Bronze Age, acquired in 1716." How the heck had the Watchers gotten hold of this thing? WHO had? There was no cross-reference to any of the other chronicles, no mention of the Watcher who had "acquired" it. Whatever that meant.  
She really needed to dig deeper, if she ever wanted to get to the bottom of this scandalous mess that past Watcher archivists had left behind.  



	2. Talk / Methos II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even Watchers create history. This one even gets a chance to share some of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:**  
>  Not mine, no harm or infringement on anybody's rights intended, no money made.
> 
>  **Thanks** to Rhi for the challenge and to Ith and Mischief for beta duty. All errors are my own, but feel free to keep any you find and like. *g*  
> 

"And after _that_ we built the bridge in Essex... But I've already told you about that one." The old man paused. After a reminiscent sigh and a moment of reflection he directed his gaze at his companion. "Why was it again that you want to hear these old stories? It's not like I've ever constructed anything spectacular."  
  
"Spectacular is overrated," came the dry reply from the ... grad student or whatever he was. The old man had forgotten what he had called it.  
  
No, actually he hadn't forgotten, he just hadn't paid heed the first time. His heart had made a leap at the phrase "history project" and the mention of a clapper bridge he had once helped reconstruct, and that was that. He'd been too eager to share his memories with someone who didn't know them by heart already _and_ was willing to listen. So he had barely listened himself. Oh, well. It wasn't important, anyway.  
  
So spectacular was overrated, huh? The young historian appeared brutally honest, but more likely he was being the exact opposite. Under the circumstances, this sure sounded like sweetening life with a lie, at any rate.  
  
* _Snap out of it, boy. I don't need pity._  
... No, patience. He means well. Swallow the embarrassment of being pitied.*  
"You know, that doesn't exactly answer my question."  
  
"Why won't you accept historical research for an answer?"  
  
"Because you've stopped making notes and bringing your cassette recorder five meetings ago."  
  
The younger man laughed. He reached into a pocket in his coat and held up a small metal case. "I upgraded it. This thing starts recording as soon as someone speaks. If we're silent for more than 5 seconds, it shuts off automatically. Very efficient, and much better quality sound. Better than notes, too." Hadn't they had one of those things in _Columbo_? Yeah, he thought so. So that really existed, huh?  
  
"Can I have a look?"  
  
"Sure." The slender device was handed over.  
  
He turned it around. No cassette or the like. Very modern and fancy. The thing used a chip, most likely. "Expensive." He felt the apparatus vibrate momentarily. He could only just feel it; it was like a remote tickle. * _Neat._ * He gave it back.  
  
The other one hesitated, then broke into a smile that held something back. "A present." * _Hmmm..._ *  
  
"You still haven't answered my question."  
  
"Old men can be quite stubborn." Dark eyes watched the him for a minute or two. "I want what is in your head. Knowledge. Memories. Even distorted memories. All those nonentities you've known will be forgotten when your generation is gone. Unless I record what I can get hold of."  
  
That angered him. "Don't call them nonentities. They were people, for goodness' sake!"  
  
"Hear, hear." The dry tone was insolent, but also it sounded odd in such a youngster. "My point exactly."  
  
The old man lost the next round of their staring contest. "Your point?"  
  
"To you they were people, so you can turn them into people for me, and anyone who listens to these tapes. Else, they will be nothing more than so much dust in a grave." The young man had a way with words that left one’s throat parched.  
  
He could play cool, too, if he put his mind to it. "I see not only old men can be stubborn."  
  
"You haven't seen me stubborn yet," came the velvet reply.  
  
The old man swallowed. "I believe you."  
  
Now the voice was more pensive. Almost shy. "You believe me, but you don't trust me. Why?"  
  
The old man shrugged. "I'm no psychiatrist. How should I know?" Murky green-brown eyes stared at him. Stared through him. X-rayed him, calculating and cold. "The letter from that history professor of yours, I checked the name. It's fake."  
  
The younger man nodded. "True." That one word left him breathless and his mind whirring. "I slipped there. I should have gotten the real professor to sign."  
  
"So you're no robber, but...?"  
  
"Oh, I'm a historian alright. Just not a student."  
  
"You're ..." Oops. Now he would almost have slipped, too. But if this guy was, indeed, from the internal investigations department of the Watchers, he had to shut up now. He had not yet mentioned Walter, and if he did, he'd be a dead man. The Watchers did not tolerate fraternisation. It led to all kinds of abuse of a Watcher's position, as he well knew. It was just that ... well, he hadn't exactly planned on becoming friends with an Immortal. It had just happened, before he had any idea who that quiet, friendly chap was. And that bit of ignorance might now cost his life.  
  
"I'm Immortal." The voice was deep and soft now. "Fancy that, an Immortal asking for a Watcher's knowledge. For his experience. How ironic."  
  
So this man was Immortal? And he _knew_ about the Watchers?!? "And after I have shared my secrets you'll kill me?"  
  
"Should I?"  
  
He answered with a brief and bitter laugh. What could one possibly say? Nothing. Nothing at all.  
  
"Would you like me to kill you?" The Immortal seemed to be serious about this. Suddenly he was solemnly personable again, not cold and sarcastic.  
  
He shook his head. "Of course not."  
  
"Then don't go suggesting it. You've always kept your secrets, and due to your ..." - he gestured at the knobby arthritic knees - "... indisposition the Watchers have lost their interest in you. I suppose I can trust you."  
  
"You sure they've lost interest?"  
  
"Don't worry." The man whom he had begun to take for granted in the past weeks gave a genuine smile. By contrast, he now realised it was the first genuine smile he saw on those features. The first sign of liking. Everything else had been amused smirks. "They know nothing about Walter. And they know nothing about me."  
  
"How..."  
  
The Immortal placed a finger across his lips and shushed him, "Shhh ... Let me keep my secrets. Just in case." He winked.  
  
He heaved a sigh. He was so old, but his curiosity had not ceased. "Can't you tell me _anything_?"  
  
"I can tell you what became of Walter." They were back at the amused smirk.  
  
Anyway, he could not pass up on a chance like this, even if his insides burned with fear. "Is he alive?"  
  
The smile was gentler now. "Yes. He has retreated to Africa. Helping the poor build schools, hospitals, etcetera. He sends his love."  
  
He was perplexed, by the wording, the curious expression in the Immortal's eyes and ... ummm ... He was missing something here, of that he was sure. "You are friends?"  
  
Another amused smirk. "You could call it that." _Hmmm..._  
  
He felt as if approaching a half-open door marked 'private'. Whatever the younger man had hinted at might not be completely off limits, though. "And he sent you here? He must trust you a lot."  
  
There was anger in the young-looking man's eyes, well-concealed but hot. "He trusted me with your life for good reason." Again there was the feeling of things unspoken. Secrets being kept. This was exasperating. Talking about the past had been a LOT easier.  
"I don't waste lives needlessly. Not even one wasting away like yours." Ah, now the anger had found an outlet. But that brief moment seemed to have been enough, for the other now continued in a softer voice, "I want to go into the construction industry, and Walter claimed you have some tricks up your sleeve. Something more than the usual trade secrets."  
  
Now it was his own turn for an amused smirk. It was true. There were things he had never been able to explain to Walter. Things he had kept to himself, because they guaranteed he was hired wherever he chose to apply. Yes, it might be time to share them. Else, they would be lost.  
  
"You have waited a long time before asking for those."  
  
The man nodded. The motion held a hint of deference. "I had hoped you'd give away some of your knowledge when you told me about the bridges you'd built. You didn't."  
  
"A historian might write them down, but really use them? Hardly. I'm too old to waste my time."  
  
"Ah, but you wasted a lot of time talking to me in the past weeks."  
  
He grinned. "Well, it's always good to have someone around in case I get a heart attack or something."  
  
  
  
  



	3. Kill / Caspian by Holde_Maid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For some, hunting is more than a necessity of life. For some, hunting is what they ARE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned, this last story is not for the faint of heart - it is angsty and suggestive of violent things, though not explicit. Prepare to enter the mind of a violent madman.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:**  
>  Not mine, no harm or copyright infringement intended, no money made. The story as such is mine, that's all.
> 
>  **Thanks** to Rhi for the challenge and to Ith for beta duty. All errors are my own, but feel free to keep any you find and like. *g*
> 
> Also, feedback is appreciated. :-)

Did you really think you could escape me in the wilderness, my Immortal quarry? I may not know the lay of the land or the tricks of a seasoned traveler, but I know my prey.   
  
I have eyes to see and hands to write down what I've seen. You cannot escape the magic of writing, which makes you Immortal even beyond your own Quickening. Like it or not, Immortal, I make you history.  
  
When you stand trembling, drinking in white fire and lightning, drowning in the power of another man, then you are weak, and I am there to write your weakness down. When you fight to the death, I am there to describe your technique, the why and the how, and the sheer force and brutality. For I know you. I know who you are.  


 

\---------------  
_He has dubbed this one the Madman._

_The journal does not give away his name, or that of the Immortal he followed._  
 _He knows, of course, or else he would not be deciphering the faded labored_  
 _handwriting. There are limits to curiosity._  
  
_He turns a page._  
\---------------

 

My brethren tell me your angel may be mightier than mine. Or that it is the same one.  
  
But how could one angel possess two bodies, guide two men at the same time? No, I have shadowed you so long, my angel is but the shadow of yours. A mirror image.  
  
They say I must not be your friend.  
  
I follow you as you enter the ravine, I stumble over rocks as you do, only just out of earshot, on the other side of a ridge. In rain, in sunshine, in snowfall, once even in hail. Like you, I survive. I will follow your destined path. Your path is my path. Your guide is my guide. Your angel is my angel.  
  
I know you as no other mortal does. And yet they say I must not be your friend. They say we are different.  
  
They never say much to me. My brethren fear me. They fear my angel. But this they have told me, I must not be your friend. They say you are dangerous, but I fear you not. I know you too well, even though we have never yet exchanged a word. When your angel speaks, I can hear his wrath, his guidance. I hear his voice. Your angel is my angel. Your path is my path, for your guide is my guide.  
  
It is true, I must stay behind, in the shadows, around a corner, must watch from above, from below, from elsewhere. I must not be your friend.  
  
I have more eyes, more faces than you do. My brethren see for me, hear for me and write down for me, when I cannot be there, when I must hide, or when my own angel speaks or fights my demons. I stay unknown. I am your shadow, as my angel is your angel's shadow.  
  
A man and his shadow must not be friends. At best, the man hides in the shadow. But the shadow cannot hide in the man. So I must stay behind. I must not be your friend.  


 

_\---------------_  
 _The room feels colder now, though the fire is still burning merrily._  
  
_Memories come rolling in like waves on the shore._  
 _Half-remembered moments of foreboding. Moments of reluctant hope._  
 _It is all still there, after all this time, every snippet of conversation,_  
 _every devious little nudging, every pang of guilt._  
 _An Immortal memory is pitilessly unlimited. It does not forget._  
  
_He turns more pages._  
\---------------

 

My Angel of Wrath grows stronger as your sword speaks. Mine grows, but yours is diminishing, it would seem, becoming his own shadow. Your weakness grows by the day. I fear you no longer, I should never have feared you, not even on that first day when your angel roared, and I knew you for what you are.  
  
You and I, we are alike, as a man and his shadow must be. So different on the surface, so alike in our core. Alike and yet different, as a man and his shadow must be. But I see now that you are the shadow, and I am the man. The true Angel of Wrath is mine, yours is but a poor imitation. You are not worthy to serve him. I know you will die.  
  
In truth, you do not deserve to live, if your weakness drives you back into the wilderness again, where you have no prey. Out here in the cold, white snow, where you can hunt no more than snow rabbits, snow geese and foxes. Not one soul to kill. Not one sinner. Not one of your own kind. No, you do not deserve to live. You deserve nothing.  
  
You will die.  
  
Your path is my path, and I will follow it. You are the one who is going astray. Possessed by an Angel of Wrath, you dared spare lives.  
  
For that, you will die. What does it matter that they hunt you, that you are weakened by the storm of fire and light? You have no right to revoke judgement. Your likes are doomed, they must be killed, and your Angel has spoken to you more clearly than human voices could. You cannot ignore his command. You must kill, or you will die. And now that you have made your choice, I know my task.  
  
You will die.  
  
I will no longer be your shadow. Your angel will truly be mine, your path truly mine, your task mine. I will kill in your stead, and you will die. Die!  
  


 

\---------------  
_The following six pages are empty and blackened_  
 _where once they have been blood-soaked._  
 _The seventh page still has black marks, but also it holds one line, written centuries ago:_  
 _"Hunt me not."_  
 _He now wishes he had not followed that piece of advice._  
\---------------

 


End file.
